


The Fine Old Truth

by Vaysh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Future Fic, King's Cross Station, M/M, Older Draco, Older Harry, Prostitution, Suicidal Ideation, mention of heart-attacks but no actual heart-attack, mention of natural character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4222182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaysh/pseuds/Vaysh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2078, Harry and Draco are both 98, an age to be proud of even for wizarding kind. Pride, though, is not on either man's mind, as they meet at Geezers Old Folks' Hotel shortly before the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.</p><p>This was written for <span></span><a href="http://hds_beltane.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://hds_beltane.livejournal.com/"></a><b>hds_beltane</b> 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Old Truth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleblackbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackbow/gifts).



> Betaed by Capitu who deserves an Order of Merlin, First Class. ♥
> 
> I meant to write about Harry and Draco in an old folks' home for a very long time; Chibitoaster's prompt gave me the opportunity to do so. Harry and Draco are almost one hundred years old in this story. I tried to make up for the fact that wizards and witches do have a longer life span than Muggles. So I didn't want them living in an old folks' home at age 80, when they were still at the prime of their lives. :)

A new guest was to arrive today at St. Pancras Hotel for Venerable and Genteel Greyheads, lovingly called "Geezers" by residents and staff. Whenever someone new moved in, a sense of excitement swept through the large house and a fresh lemony smell was in the air. Harry Potter walked down the broad staircase to the Breakfast Salon. The parquet flooring of the lobby was newly polished; the wooden squares glinted in the sunlight streaming through the revolving doors of the former Midland Wizarding Hotel at Euston Street.

Where usually comfortable leather chairs were grouped in front of the fireplace, now trunks in all possible sizes and colours cluttered the lobby. Someone new definitely was moving in; someone with a lot of luggage. Harry's gaze was drawn to a black-lacquered longcase clock. It was decorated with two Chinese Fireball dragons, drawn in muted orange tones. Every minute, on the minute, small balls of flame erupted from the dragons' short snouts. Beside the clock several large round boxes sat upon two trunks. Hat boxes, was Harry's guess as he recalled the mysterious pink-striped box on top of Aunt Petunia's wardrobe. He would have thought a witch was moving in but the assorted pieces of furniture all had a distinctly masculine flair to them. The round boxes were midnight blue; there were at least half a dozen suitcases made from sturdy brown leather. 

Just as Harry reached Reception, two house-elves came sliding out of the fireplace carrying a huge writing desk between them. It was a heavy-looking monstrosity made from wood black with age – a piece of furniture fitting the patriarch of one of the old families, pure-blood down to the seventh generation.

"And now I've been moved to the lobby. Amazing degrees of competence, wouldn't you agree, Scorpius? I'll be camping on that dusty rug there in front of the fireplace. Splendid accommodations, really. I mean, who could ask for more?"

Harry would have recognised that dark posh voice anywhere, even after a hundred years. And he had seen (and heard) Malfoy only last week in the Ministry.

"Father, can you please stop making this harder than it already is?" said a lighter voice laced with exasperation. 

The revolving entrance door turned, and a man with pale bright hair stepped into the lobby. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, the only child from the long divorced Malfoy-Greengrass marriage, headed the Unspeakables since more than a decade. He normally was a gentle-spoken man. But the razor-sharp edge in his voice left no doubt that he had been raised in Malfoy Manor and learned from early on to wield words as weapons – against the bigotry of his grandparents and against the anti-Muggle forces in the Department of Mysteries. He was a good man, with a passionate curiosity for Muggle culture; a solid rock in the Ministry all the years Harry had headed the Auror Department.

Draco Malfoy, though, was another story. He stepped in next through the revolving door. The austere dark grey was his signature colour. Harry doubted Malfoy had ever worn differently coloured robes when speaking before the Wizengamot for some pure-blood cause. 

Malfoy had stayed out of politics, for his son's sake, Harry suspected, rather than for any lack of desire to meddle behind the scenes. He had focused on running the Malfoy estate. And over the years, he had acquired an internationally acclaimed collection of Dark artefacts. Harry had got an official tour once, forty years ago, when there were still rumours floating around the DMLE that Malfoy's interest in Dark artefacts was more than just an odd if fitting hobby. But nothing had ever come of all the many searches of Malfoy Manor. They had seized a few Forbidden books, once a defunct Time-Turner. But all dangerous artefacts in Malfoy's collection were stored safely behind Unbreakable glass and extra-strong wards. Everything else was on exhibit in the representative rooms Malfoy used for the collection (rooms where once Voldemort had made his lair).

Malfoy's hair might have turned grey but Harry couldn't tell. It looked as bright and pale as it always had. In the soft light of the lobby in gleamed. Malfoy always cut an elegant figure. Not as imposing as his father, not as overwhelming. But he had settled into a subdued kind of authority in the decades following the war, and it showed in his erect posture and in the unselfconscious way he entered a room and made it his own. 

Harry knew that he himself, after all those years as one of the mightiest men in the Ministry, didn't look the role people wanted him to play. Part of it was that he mostly wore Muggle clothes (more comfortable). But another part was that there still was something about the wizarding world that held him in awe. He would come to the Minister's Ball and be shocked silent for minutes until he'd got used to the splendour of the hall. He loved enchanted ceilings like a child; for his retirement party there had been a constant rain of flowers and butterflies from the bright blue sky that had been the Atrium's ceiling for the night. Harry still was most himself as an observer. And you don't make a room your own by watching in dumbstruck wonder.

Scorpius talked quietly to one of the two house-elves who had placed the writing desk carefully beside the antique clock. This one looked as old as Kreacher (long departed), a wizened creature with white wisps of hair sticking out behind its large ears.

Malfoy was briskly walking towards Reception, where the Welcome Witch already stood and watched him approach with something like, Harry was sure of it, trepidation. There was a slight limp to Malfoy's step. He was leaning on a cane that had no doubt once belonged to Lucius Malfoy. Harry seemed to remember a young Lucius strutting around the Hogwarts grounds with it. Its silver head was snake-shaped, and patterns of dark green jade and ebony twirled around the stick. It didn't look as if it was made for any real purpose but Malfoy clearly put some weight on it. It was the right leg that seemed to give him trouble. Harry hadn't noticed anything wrong last week, but then Malfoy had been sitting during the entire meeting.

"Mister Malfoy, welcome to St. Pancras Hotel." The Welcome Witch tried for cheerful but failed. 

"Oh, I am sure you welcome my dirty Death Eater money," Malfoy growled under his breath. Louder he said, "Why are my possessions strewn around the lobby of this so-called hotel?" 

Harry stood not ten feet away but Malfoy did not spare him a glance. But he had seen him. There were things you noticed as an Auror, even in retirement, and Harry had seen the faintest of hesitation in Malfoy's steps when he'd entered the lobby.

"We didn't expect you to bring quite so many trunks, Mr Malfoy, and only one of your fireplaces upstairs had been opened –"

"I am not sure how many trunks you'd thought I would bring. Did you think I'd come with nothing but the bare necessities? Or can you seriously believe I'd sleep in any other than my own four-poster bed?" 

Harry quickly looked around the lobby. As did the Welcome Witch, with a sudden nervous tick in her eye. No four-posted bed could possibly fit through the fireplace. There was the clock, there were thirty trunks (by Harry's rough estimate), there were the round boxes and the suitcases. There was the monstrous desk and a house-elf catching his breath beside it. No bed. 

Malfoy leaned with the back against the reception desk and smirked, the good old Malfoy smirk. Harry was at once convinced that any four-poster bed, if Malfoy had indeed brought one with him to Geezers, had already safely arrived in his bedroom upstairs. 

The Welcome Witch must have come to the same conclusion for she turned back to Malfoy with a brilliant smile. "Let me express my sincerest apologies for the inconvenience, Sir, in the name of the entire staff of St. Pancras Hotel. And..." She hesitated for a short moment. "And I can assure you that nobody here at Geezers is treated differently because of their past. The war is –"

"Long over. I know. And haven't I heard that line all my life." Malfoy raised his eyes to the ceiling, leaning back even further against the reception desk. "No war is ever over, young lady. As you will soon come to understand, no doubt. But it would help if at least my furniture was up in my rooms."

"Your belongings will be delivered to your suite presently," the witch said quickly. "May I suggest you take tea in the Green Salon until everything is settled?" She pointed towards the hallway that led to the Salons. The Green Salon was a good choice – its interior design was inspired by Salazar Slytherin's crest.

Scorpius glanced at them as he gave final instructions to the house-elf. He seemed to sense trouble was brewing and kept turning his head towards Reception. 

"Tea would indeed be welcome," Malfoy drawled. "My son has told me you serve a passable Assam and –"

The lobby shook with an ear-splitting crack. Beside Harry, the marble columns shivered; the parquet flooring underneath his shoes rose for three long heart beats before it flattened out again. One corner of the largest four-poster bed Harry had ever seen stuck out of the fireplace. It was wrapped in a cloud of ash and dust; the mantelpiece had been lifted from the sides of the firepit. Knick-knack that had adorned the mantelpiece was crashing to the floor with loud bangs, once piece after the other. There were bits of glass and porcelain everywhere.

"Bloody hell." The Welcome Witch reached for a small brass bell and rang it. It made a nice tinkling sound but much louder than Harry had expected. He put his hands over his ears. Meanwhile, the witch rushed to the fireplace where the two house-elves tried to bring the huge bed through. Malfoy hadn't moved at all. _Git._

Scorpius Malfoy, who was crossing the lobby with long strides, hadn't turned back towards the fireplace, either. He obviously had known what was coming. The bald house-elf, too, seemed unfazed by the noise and chaos. He calmly gave orders to the other elf who stood before the broken fireplace with a look of horror on his face. 

There was a quick movement at Harry's side. He turned but Malfoy still leaned against the desk, the picture of relaxed nonchalance.

"Father." Scorpius approached Malfoy.

"What?"

"Give me that." There was something hard and sharp in Scorpius' voice, something Harry had never heard from him before.

"What? What do you want from me?" Malfoy righted himself; his hand was shaking slightly. Leather bracelets, dragon hide and at least two inches broad, were wrapped around both his wrists. It was an odd choice for Malfoy, with his silk shirts and bespoke robes. And if he was covering his faded Dark Mark, why wear a bracelet on the right wrist, as well?

"The knife." Scorpius stood right before Malfoy now, two formidable men. Equal height, same build. Scorpius had always seemed smaller to Harry than his father. He was not smaller now, not even by an inch.

"Fucking..." The muttered obscenity felt wrong on Malfoy's lips. He tossed a small knife on the reception desk. It was made of steel; the handle embroidered with leaves of parsley, the ritual offering for Saint Pancras and the emblem of St. Pancras Hotel.

"Thank you." Scorpius' voice was flat. "Will you take tea now? Please. I'll join you after I talked to Harry." _And got your bloody bed out of the fireplace_ , he didn't say but it was obvious from the way he glanced towards where the Welcome Witch and the aged house-elf were casting Enlargement Charms on the chimney.

Malfoy stared at his son for a few moments then turned abruptly to Harry. "Potter," he said in mock surprise as if he'd just seen him. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Er. I, er, live here." Pathetic. All those speeches he'd had to give as Head Auror, and still he was unable to talk to Malfoy like a normal person.

"Interesting. I seem to have read something about this in the _Daily Prophet_. Don't you own this place?" Smooth, suave. Malfoy grinned at him as if they were the best of friends. 

Scorpius rolled his eyes. The paper knife was lying on the polished surface of the reception desk.

"I am under the impression," Harry said slowly so no 'er' would slip into his speech, "that the Malfoys hold considerable shares in Geezers."

"Oh, do we?" 

"Father, please." Scorpius took Malfoy's upper arm. "Tea."

"Ah, yes, the deplorable Assam." Malfoy took one step in Harry's direction. "Do us both a favour and stay away from me," he hissed as he passed him and headed towards the Green Salon.

Scorpius' gaze followed Malfoy whose limp had got more pronounced. "I am sorry, Harry."

"Don't worry about it. At our age, it's not so easy to get used to change. He will come around." Which didn't answer the question why the Malfoys would even consider moving Draco into Geezers. For a moment Harry contemplated asking Scorpius. But it was private, family. And Malfoy had told him to stay out of his hair. It sounded like sage advice. 

"I doubt it." Scorpius turned to Harry. His eyes were unnaturally bright with dark circles underneath. There was a smudge of ash on his cheek. Behind him, the fireplace was being taken apart to make room for Malfoy's over-sized bed.

"The Assam really is very good here," Harry said with conviction. Did Malfoy like treacle tart? He couldn't remember. But the treacle tart at Geezers was excellent.

Scorpius gave him a quick smile, touched his shoulder, and went back to the fireplace. The Welcome Witch and the house-elves had finally managed to disgorge the four-poster bed. It loomed beside the writing desk. The fireplace was in shambles.

Sunlight fell in through the high windows. It caught in the blade of the small knife. It probably was used to open letters or cut the pages of new books delivered from Flourish and Blotts. Harry doubted it was the only one the hotel owned. He took it, felt the handle cool and sleek against his palm, and put it into the pocket of his jeans.

*

The young man entered the building through the front door. A visitor then, not a guest of the hotel. Harry watched him through the glass doors of the library.

Lunch had been smoked Scottish salmon, complete with capers, shallots and parsley, a speciality of the restaurant. Even Malfoy had liked it, if the empty plates and the unusual lack of complaints were any indication. He had retreated to his rooms immediately after lunch, like he had for the last ten days since he'd come to live at Geezers. He had yet to join the residents for tea or wizarding chess or even just to get a book from the well-stocked library. 

Harry usually spend the hours between lunch and tea in the library, pretending to read the _Daily Prophet_ but really revisiting jumbled memories of his old cases (the murderous attacks of the Purity Movement, the infamous cabbage poisoning case in the Leaky, the series of mysterious break-ins in the Department of Mysteries). He was just contemplating, paper sinking to his lap and his eyes drifting shut, the Boggart Who Would Not Change. It had been his first case as Head Auror, and the creature was now long dead, killed by a Hit Witch who had managed to hit its weak spot just behind the left knee. That's when the visitor was asking for _Draco Malfoy_. 

The name snapped Harry out of his doze. The man's voice sounded young, naturally cheerful, nothing like Harry imagined a visitor of Malfoy would sound. The voice drifted through the ajar door. Harry waved two fingers and the door opened another three inches so he could oversee the lobby.

The man stood at Reception. He was about twenty-five, perhaps a bit older but not much. He was stunningly beautiful. Even Harry, who had never been interested in men that way, could see that. Flora, Lily's youngest granddaughter, had turned thirteen last weekend. She'd be awestruck at the sight of this man. Dark, curly hair cropped short, a slender build, with a hint of muscle. When the library door creaked, he turned around and looked casually in its direction. His deep-set eyes twinkled. Harry was oddly reminded of Albus, Albus like he had looked as a young man.

The Welcome Wizard sent the man up to Malfoy's rooms. Harry felt for the paper knife in his pocket. He had contemplated returning it to Reception, he had used it to open a letter he'd received from James (who lived in St. Petersburg these days). In a careless moment he had even tried to clean his nails with it. The thing was razor-sharp. Harry couldn't imagine what Malfoy wanted it for. He could certainly afford any paper knife he wanted. 

Harry got up and put the _Prophet_ back in the newspaper rack. His Auror instincts had been on alert for days. Something was up with Malfoy (nothing new), and Harry would find out what it was (nothing new, either). He nodded to Madame Flint who took her after-lunch espresso in the library. She waved him away and snatched the _Prophet_.

Malfoy's rooms were on the third floor; one of the large suites overlooking Syntactic Alley, the wizarding street leading from the Ministry to King's Cross Station. 

When Harry had first moved into Geezers, he had been offered one of those front suites, too, but he preferred the smaller ones to the North of the building. From the windows of his living room he looked directly into St. Pancras International, onto the tracks where the Eurostar departed for Paris. At noon, muted light would fall onto his desk through the glass roof of the station. There was always the low humming of the railroad tracks, permeating even the strong magical barrier between Muggle train station and wizarding Old Folks' Hotel.

From the top of the grand staircase, Harry walked down the carpeted corridor. There could be no doubt which of the three suites was Malfoy's. His wizened house-elf sat beside the central double doors. Malfoy obviously had got himself the best (as in, the most expensive) suite available at Geezers. Harry was torn between the familiar urge to roll his eyes and a fond tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was some odd comfort in the fact that Malfoy was still the same unbearable prat he'd always been.

The house-elf had a pillow-case wrapped around his body, embroidered in the center with the Malfoy crest. It was the same old elf who had so expertly moved Malfoy's outsized furniture through the lobby's fireplace. But he looked familiar even from before that day. Perhaps they had met at Malfoy Manor decades ago when Harry had visited Narcissa Malfoy for tea. Or on that momentous occasion when he had returned Draco Malfoy his wand. The elf sat perched on a Louis IV armchair that sported silk upholstery with green wreaths of silver flowers. The chair was designed for humans, and the elf's legs were too short to reach the floor. He stared straight ahead at a bouquet of roses sat on a marble pedestal. His ears were pressed flat against his bald head, a distinct sign of house-elf discomfort.

The thick carpet swallowed the sound of Harry's steps. Only when he was almost upon the elf, did he notice him. With a strangled sound he jumped off the chair, smoothed down his pillow-case with one practiced swipe, then postured before the doors as if waiting to usher Harry Potter inside.

"Master Harry Potter, good Sir," the elf said in greeting. 

Most house-elves had taken to addressing Harry as _Master_ , with the added honorific. Twenty years ago, as Head Auror, Harry would have tried to refuse the title. But retirement had taught him to accept that what was embarrassing to him was only polite to others. And who was he to refuse a title when even a Malfoy house-elf saw it fit to address him so?

"Is Malfoy in..." he asked, and the house-elf's name came to him naturally as if he'd always known it, "Agney?"

The elf's ears perked up considerably. "Master Draco has a visitor, Sir." He stood erect, shoulders pulled back but Harry thought he heard a touch of amusement in Agney's voice.

Another upholstered antiquity, which clearly was never meant to be sat upon, stood beside the flowers. Harry gestured towards the armchair, this one with a pattern of blue wreaths. It rose a couple of inches and floated towards him. He sat it down gently at the other side of Malfoy's doors. "I wait if it's all right."

Agney stared at him with bulging eyes. Harry made to sit on the armchair when the house-elf turned so abruptly that Harry thought he must have heard a call from the inside. But there was no sound behind the doors, and anyway, Harry doubted any sound could penetrate the thick oak wood. But elves' ears were much sharper than humans', especially when their Master was issuing a command. Harry did not think it beyond Malfoy to have set up privacy wards for his suite.

Carefully Agney turned the brass knob of one of the double doors. As most things at Geezers, the hinges were well-kept, well-oiled, and it swung silently outward, towards Harry. Like a wireless turned abruptly full volume, sounds could be heard from the inside, ragged panting and wet sucking noises, obscenely loud in the quiet of the corridor.

"Master Harry Potter should not have to wait for Master Draco's _visitor_." There could be no doubt that Agney did not approve of Malfoy's guest. He stepped to the side, making room for Harry to enter.

Through the half-opened door Harry saw the young man. He was on his knees, head buried in Malfoy's lap. Fast movement, red lips tight around a sizable erection, wild dark hair – Harry later recalled all of it in detail even when he had not wanted to watch, had not wanted to see – Malfoy's bare pale throat framed by a white shirt, head thrown back, his open mouth such a shocking pink.

Harry used his wandless magic to make sure there was not the slightest squeak when he closed the door. 

"I rather wait," he said and took a seat on the armchair.

Climbing atop his own chair, Agney flashed a quick grin in his direction. Malfoy house-elves... Somehow, the Slytheriness of their masters was rubbing off on them.

*

Every five minutes or so, a rose petal from the bouquet floated to the floor. Agney never moved, and maybe he had nothing to do with it. But some kind of Cleaning Charm was at work, for the moment a petal touched the carpeted floor it vanished.

Another house-elf came by, with St. Pancras' parsley emblem on a tea-cosy she wore for a dress. In her arms she carried a huge stack of linen. She exchanged quick nods with Agney, then recognised Harry and almost dropped her burden. With a hushed, "Master Harry, good Sir," she rushed past them to the end of the corridor, knocked, and was let in by an impressive witch dressed in a purple gown that would have done Dumbledore proud.

The double doors on Harry's side opened. _Finally._ The young man stood there with his back to Harry, exchanging good-byes with Malfoy inside. They were not on a first-name basis, and when the man stepped out into the corridor, he had a small, heavy pouch in his hand. It probably was wise of Malfoy to pay a callboy in coin rather than transferring the payment directly to the young man's Gringotts vault.

The man looked first right, then left, from house-elf to Harry Potter sitting in front of Draco Malfoy's doors.

"Gentlemen," he said with a grin, threw the pouch up in the air and caught it easily with the same hand. Without another look he strolled towards the staircase.

Agney stared after him with squinted eyes, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, _Agney should have taken the sock when Mistress offered it._

Harry got up, turned to the double doors and shoved them open. 

The glance before into Malfoy's suite had not prepared him for the splendour of the room. The walls were the colour of muted gold, pale blue couches and chairs were arranged on a sand-coloured Oriental rug before a large fireplace. The antique longcase clock had been placed prominently in one corner. Slytherin green was noticeably absent. Malfoy stood in front of the fireplace, and for a moment Harry wondered whether he was making a firecall. But he was not kneeling, and there was no fire burning in the crate.

"Good Master Harry Potter here to see Master Draco." Agney had followed Harry into the room and was attending to his duties.

Malfoy spun around. "What the – Potter!" 

There was an openness to his features that Harry in all the many years of their acquaintance had never seen. It was not the after-glow of sex, though, and Malfoy looked determined rather than happy. And if that open look was Malfoy's usual face when Harry Potter was not around, it was closing down fast. Malfoy shifted his weight to his left leg, his body straightened into the posture Harry recalled from the Wizengamot. 

"What do you want? I told you not to bother me. It's bad enough I have to see you and your little fan club at dinner every day." Malfoy started walking past Harry towards what had to be the door to his bedroom or salon.

Fan club. Malfoy was no doubt talking about Madame Flint, Ralph and Padma, who usually joined Harry in the dining room.

"Wait." Harry snatched him by the collar. "I have something for you."

Malfoy looked pointedly down at Harry's fingers wrapped around the silken cloth of his shirt. Harry let go off him and got the paper knife out of his pocket. He held it out on his flat palm. The steel glittered; the handle was so black it seemed to draw the light into the grooves of the carvings. It was a small, a dangerous thing.

Harry wasn't sure how he expected Malfoy to react. He had played with the knife in his pocket while Agney and he had been waiting. It felt warm in his hand. Malfoy stood unmoving but his gaze rose from the knife to Harry's face. His eyes were wide with surprise and something else that Harry could not read.

"Agney will be taking this." 

The paper knife was snatched from Harry's hand before he realised what was happening. 

Agney barely came up to Harry's waist but he had no problem reaching up with his long bony arm. The small knife looked big in his tiny hands. He wrapped it carefully into a fold of his pillow-case. When he brought his hands up again, the knife was gone, vanished by house-elf magic or hidden away in a secret pocket of the pillow-case.

Malfoy laughed, a short bark of a laugh. Harry was stunned into silence.

Agney planted himself before Harry on his naked feet, eyes blazing with indignation. "Harry Potter should not be giving knives to Master Draco. Harry Potter should not be bringing sharp things to Master Draco. Harry Potter should be leaving now so Agney can watch over Master Draco."

With that he turned and stomped away. A piece of the wall swung open as he approached it and Agney vanished in the dusty opening. The wall closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the gold-leaf surface unbroken and without any sign of a hidden servants' door.

"What is he doing with it?" Harry whispered.

"Adding the bloody knife to his stash of sharp things, no doubt." Malfoy sat down into the armchair where he had got a blowjob not ten minutes ago. The smirk was back on his face. Harry would have thought the whole affair funny but there was a brittle tension around Malfoy. Underneath the smirk he looked tired.

"He's watching over you..." The mantle-piece was almost empty. Only a small container with silvery Floo powder and three large candles stood on it. No antique brooches or pins that one may place on a mantle-piece. No pictures of friends or family, either.

Harry turned around. No letter opener on the huge writing desk, no scissors, no knives. The desk stood in front of the three large windows. The floor-length blue curtains were held back behind brass knobs to let the daylight in. In Harry's rooms elegantly twisted silk rope was used to tie back the curtains. 

Malfoy had not invited him to take a seat but Harry's knees felt a bit wobbly. He sat in the chair opposite Malfoy. 

"Nice try, Potter," Malfoy drawled. "I do appreciate your efforts to bring about my demise. It's what enemies are there for, after all."

He had aged gracefully. His hair was longer than Harry liked but the haughty pure-blood look suited Malfoy. His eyes were bright, alive. There were wrinkles around the corners of his mouth that would look nice if the man for once stopped the stupid smirking. He had buttoned up his shirt but had left the top buttons open. No tie. The beginnings of a small belly showed underneath the shirt. No belt. The dragon-hide bracelets around Malfoy's wrists suddenly made sense.

"I didn't know –"

"Of course you didn't. Merlin." Malfoy sprang up, and Harry could tell he had forgotten his bad leg for he immediately shifted the weight to the left. There was a flash of pain on his face. He limped towards the side-board where several bottles of liquor sat on a tray. "Whiskey? Soda?"

"Whiskey." Harry watched Malfoy pour amber liquid in two tumblers and add ice. "So Agney watches you so you don't cut your wrists again?"

Malfoy pressed one of the tumblers in Harry's hand. "Not cut my wrists, not take deadly potions, not jump in front of the Knightbus. Yes, that is Agney's job." 

"I was wondering why Astoria and Scorpius made you live at Geezers. You certainly don't seem to enjoy it."

"I don't." Malfoy moved more carefully when he sat, his stiff right leg outstretched. "Oh, it doesn't matter. One day I'll be more clever even than Agney. It doesn't matter whether it's here or at home in the Manor." He downed the whiskey in one gulp.

Harry took a smaller sip. The whiskey was very good, smooth and warm, with a taste equal parts honey and malt. "The leg?"

"Accident." Malfoy sighed. 

"You didn't really throw yourself before the Knightbus?"

Malfoy laughed out loud, the dark bark-like laughter. Harry found he quite like Malfoy's laugh. 

"You would have heard about it in the _Prophet_ ," Malfoy said. "Don't worry, Potter. I get it right next time." He cradled the empty tumbler in his hand.

Auror intuition was something you could not teach. Dawlish kept saying you either had it or you didn't. On the rare occasions when Harry still lectured to new Aurors, he talked about years of experience. About growing up as a teenager during a war. _Next time._ Harry watched Malfoy over the rim of his glass. There was something odd about the way Malfoy had stood in front of the fireplace when Harry had come in. About that open, determined look on his face. Something about the best suites of Geezers being located on the third floor. About the 25 feet drop down to Syntactic Alley. About the large front-facing, unbarred windows.

"Well, why do _you_ like it so much at Geezers, Potter?" Malfoy's voice was soft, inquisitive, like he really wanted to know.

"Me?" Ginny had been buried in the dark green and gold of the Holyhead Harpies. Her hair had been stunningly beautiful. "I like how quiet it is." The hum of the train tracks was a constant companion in Harry's dreams. "How safe."

*

Two days until the Anniversary. Harry could only think of it as a capitalised affair. All the many invitations he'd received in the last months seemed to think so, too. _... express our unending gratitude and invite you as Special Guest to the Anniversary Dinner at the Ministry... proud and happy to welcome you to the Anniversary celebrations held at Hogwarts School of... request the honour of your company at the DMLE Anniversary Party..._ And on and on. Harry had declined all of them. 

The Battle of Hogwarts seemed like something he had been taught in History of Magic. There were days when he could have sworn he had first heard about the defeat of Voldemort in Professor Binns' droning, sleep-inducing voice. He felt sorry for the kids at Hogwarts who had to learn about it. Eighty years was longer than any one victory should be celebrated, no matter how important it had once been for the wizarding world.

He would spend the bloody Anniversary at Geezers. Albus and Lily had said they'd come by. Harry was looking forward to seeing them. He'd open the absurdly expensive bottle of wine that the Minister for Magic had send him along with the invitation. Perhaps he'd lure Malfoy down into the Smoking Salon for a game of wizarding chess.

Harry had woken with a faint stomach ache. It was nothing to worry about, he told himself. And it wasn't. It was gone by the time he had showered and shaved. Only, last time it had started with a stomach ache in the morning, too. He skipped the bacon at breakfast and took a refill of freshly squeezed orange juice. After he had climbed back up the grand staircase, he stopped at the first-floor bannister, waiting for the tell-tale pain in his chest. He took a couple of deep, careful breaths. Nothing. He was fine. 

Malfoy came down from the third floor. He never used the hotel elevator. One day, Harry had to ask him about that. The limp seemed less pronounced today; Malfoy barely leaned on his cane. 

"Any plans for tomorrow, Potter?" Malfoy joined Harry at the curved bannister. 

From here they could see the entire lobby, all the way to the revolving entrance doors. Padma had a herd of children visiting; the youngest was barely Hogwarts age but looked very smart in her Ravenclaw Quidditch uniform. Padma had told Harry all about the girl, the youngest Seeker Hogwarts had ever had. Younger even than Harry.

"Tomorrow?" he replied. "You mean, day after tomorrow. I am staying at Geezers for the Anniversary." Let Malfoy think he was an arrogant git, refusing all those invitations. This once, Harry did not care.

"Oh, no. I meant tomorrow." Malfoy was moving nearer to Harry. "Beltane. Any plans?"

Malfoy stood so close their sides were touching. He was very warm and smelled of some expensive perfume or soap. Vanilla, Harry thought, with touches of sandalwood. He had all but forgotten about Beltane. When Lily had been younger, she had always insisted on raising a Maypole in the garden behind their house at Godric's Hollow. It had been years since Harry had lit a Beltane fire.

"No. No plans. I think..." He seemed to remember a water-logged Beltane extravaganza from last year. "I think there is some kind of orgy planned down in the spa."

Malfoy chuckled. In the lobby Padma and her son had managed to squeeze most of the kids into the elevator.

"They will be lighting the fires in Regent's Park." Malfoy's attention seemed wholly focused on the small Ravenclaw Seeker but Harry wasn't deceived. This was important to Malfoy. He turned to face Harry. "Want to go?"

There was a small burning pain in Harry's chest. He took a deep breath. The pain did not get worse but it did not go away, either. "Sure," he said. 

"Great. I'll meet you down in the lobby. At night-fall." Malfoy lightly squeezed his shoulder, a gesture so reminiscent of Scorpius that Harry couldn't help smile broadly at him. If Malfoy was surprised he didn't show it. He simply grabbed his cane and left with a satisfied nod.

*

An unopened letter was lying on Harry's desk, huge and stiff with formality, the Ministry's unbroken seal dark red. Harry sighed. The Minister just would not take no for an answer. Genevieve Winterbottom was an outstanding Minister, the best they had in years. Muggle-born, too, which had not made politics easier but better, in the long run. Harry had supported her all through her rise up through the ranks. They had become friends, and Genevieve just could not accept that a friend would decline her heartfelt invitation to one of the biggest Ministry events of the year.

The pressure in Harry's chest returned. Had it grown stronger since breakfast? He couldn't tell. Through his shirt, he rubbed the skin above his heart. This was nothing like what the heart-attack had felt, he reminded himself. He was not sweating, he was breathing normally. No numbness in his left arm. Nothing. This was nothing.

A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek. Harry wiped it away with the back of his hand. He concentrated on the hum of the train station on the other side of his windows. There. An Eurostar was leaving at 10.24 am. Muggles with backpacks and suitcases were walking towards the sleek white train. Ginny's clock on the mantle-piece said it was twenty-one minutes after ten.

The pain made Harry stumble backwards. A sharp burn in his chest. He fell back onto the sofa. He couldn't hear the hum of the train station over his laboured breathing. At St. Mungo's the Healers had told him that many men did not feel pain when they suffered a heart-attack. Harry's experience was different. Twelve years ago, he'd had his first. The pain had been excruciating. Stress, the Healers had said, years of stress taking their toll. Take it easy, they had said. He had been working full-time then, heading the Auror Department. And he had not stopped working. Only after the third heart-attack, Genevieve had made him quit his job. He was grateful to her for that because he himself could have never brought himself to retire. 

He had been healthy for the last ten years. He was enjoying his quiet life at Geezers, he was –

Pain lanced through him. Harry pressed his flat hand hard against his heart. There was a heart beat; he felt it through bone and skin. Sweat was accumulating on his upper lip. His shirt was drenched. He groped for his wand on the side-table and took a deep breath. His heart cramped painfully at the intake of new air. Harry's hand shook so hard he almost dropped the wand. 

He summoned his usual stock of happy memories to be able to cast a Patronus and chose one that always worked – a memory of a brilliant summer day at Godric's Hollow shortly after Lily was born. Shreds of white vapour drifted from the tip of his wand.

"Damn!" He needed help. There was an on-site Healer at Geezers, Mildred, a friendly competent middle-aged witch. She liked Harry, and Harry liked her. Mildred would help him. He took long shallow breaths to not make his heart cramp up again and didn't think about which memory to chose... Malfoy's body leaning towards him, the feel of a cold tumbler in his hand, the smell of whiskey and sandalwood, the jingle of ice cubes and Malfoy's soft dark laugh – 

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

The silver-bright stag sprang from Harry's wand, prancing around the room. 

"Get Mildred," Harry said, and the stag proudly threw his head back and leaped through the wall.

Harry took long and shallow breaths. His heart beat felt steady now that he knew a Healer was coming. It felt strong. In the train station, the Eurostar had departed for Paris. 

Mildred Apparated directly in front of the door of Harry's suite. Harry heard the pop of Apparition, then a loud knock. Mildred did not wait for Harry's reply but entered, black healer's bag in hand.

"What is it, Harry?" The healer's bag was already on the side-table. Mildred was kneeling before Harry, she quickly unbuttoned his shirt and drew a magical stethoscope out of the pocket of her robes. It looked like an Extendable Ear. Heat rushed through Harry's whole body.

"Something's wrong… with my chest." Not another heart-attack. He didn't want to go back to St. Mungo's for all their bloody tests. He had taken so good care of his heart. Quiet, safety, the low hum of the trains. He could not suffer another attack.

"Breathe, Harry. Don't stop breathing." Mildred pressed the flesh-coloured ear of the stethoscope to the skin above Harry's heart. It was a warm and gentle touch, almost as if she was touching him with her hands. And yet Harry's heart cramped up again. He hissed at the sharp pain. 

Mildred had the earpieces attached and was listening intently. "Breathe, Harry," she said, and damn, he _was_ breathing. "Deep breaths," Mildred said, but deep breaths hurt. Harry took a full gulp of air, anyway; he watched his chest raise, and something cramped up within him, and there was no more air. He tried to draw another breath, and it burned terribly. His eyes watered with the pain.

"I... " He blindly sought the extendable ear with both hands and tried to rip the damn thing from his chest. It had felt soft but now it held on to him with magical force. Harry groaned as the ear took bits of his skin with it. 

"Harry, Harry, stay calm. Stop thrashing, Harry. Your heart is –" 

Mildred tried to sound calm but Harry heard the alarm in her voice. So it was another heart-attack. They'd Apparate him to St. Mungo's, they'd run all their tests. But perhaps this time they couldn't do a thing, not one thing. He would –

"Let me talk to him, Healer Attinborough." A dark voice, the knock of a cane on Harry's hardwood floor. A whiff of sandalwood. And fear. Harry's own.

He had his eyes closed, concentrating on breathing, shallow, slow, in, out. His heart beat was not steady, it was racing at a painful speed. He was sweating profusely and yet his left arm felt ice-cold. Mildred and Malfoy were having a heated argument, so much was clear even when Harry didn't understand all the words. He was busy breathing, in and out, slow, shallow. The next Eurostar was leaving 11.31 am. Which left him a good half hour, at least.

"Harry?" Malfoy's voice. There were warm hands on Harry's shoulders. "Harry, open your eyes."

Harry did. Malfoy knelt before him on the floor, his right leg awkwardly angled to the side to not lean on it. 

"Shouldn't kneel, with that leg." Harry's mouth was dry, from the shallow breathing.

"Who gives a fuck about my leg? What do you think you're doing, Potter?" Malfoy's eyes were searching Harry's face. Harry felt his heart cramp up again, and he didn't want Malfoy to see him like this but it hurt, badly, and he moaned and had to press his palms against his heart. There was no change in Malfoy's face, only his hands on Harry's shoulders got heavier. _Steady._

Mildred stepped up behind Malfoy. The magical stethoscope dangled from her neck. "He's having a panic attack. Mr Malfoy, please let me do my job."

Malfoy turned his head slightly without taking his eyes of Harry. "Get out."

"I beg your pardon, Sir." 

"You heard me. Get out. Close the door behind you." Malfoy moved his hands slowly down to Harry's chest. His touch was light, careful. _Steady._

"Harry?" Mildred asked. She was watching Malfoy intently.

Harry's hands were still pressed to his heart. Malfoy covered them with his palms. At the touch Harry felt his heart beat stutter, and hot fear swept through him. He sucked in air, and Malfoy moved away from his chest at once; he slid his hands to Harry's sides and down his waist, below the unbuttoned shirt. The touch was intimate, a lover's caress rather than the assuring touch of a friend. "Steady," Malfoy whispered.

Harry looked up to Mildred who followed Malfoy's every move. He nodded. "I... I talk to Malfoy here."

She looked from him to Malfoy and back to him, took the stethoscope from her neck and stuffed it back into her bag. For a few moments she rummaged around in it and finally brought out a small potion bottle. All the while Malfoy was caressing Harry's skin, small, slow movements up and down his waist.

"Calming Draught," Mildred said. "You may want to give Harry a few spoonful once the two of you are done talking." She put the bottle on the side-table. "And, Mr Malfoy, you really shouldn't strain your leg like this." With that she took her bag and left. The double door clicked shut behind her.

Malfoy did not get up; he did not stop touching Harry. Instead he growled, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter?" 

Harry did not know what to say. Not when each breath burned in his chest and his heart was skipping every other beat. Ginny's clock said it was twenty minutes past eleven. On the other side of his windows, the next Eurostar would leave soon. "I've… I've had three heart-attacks."

"So?"

"I don't want another."

Malfoy shifted, his left arm tightened around Harry's waist; he placed his right palm lightly on Harry's stomach. "You're not having a heart-attack now. You've heard Healer Attinborough. You're only panicking, Potter. So stop it."

Harry's stomach tensed beneath Malfoy's hand, he felt his heart contract in one painful cramp. "Can't..." 

"You can. Steady now, Potter. Relax." Malfoy's whispered words were soothing. Harry leaned into the half-embrace of Malfoy's arm. "You're making yourself panic. Just relax, for Merlin's sake."

Harry listened for the hum of the trains. It was there, vibrating in the walls, the floor, the upholstery of the sofa he sat upon. The windows quivered almost imperceptibly with it. You had to know what to listen for to hear the humming. Harry turned his head and looked out into St. Pancras. The Eurostar was gone. _Missed another one._ Malfoy followed his gaze. He seemed to become aware of the view into the Muggle train station for the first time.

Breathing became lighter somehow. Something eased in Harry's chest, and he gulped in a deep stuttering breath. And drew another one that filled his belly and chest. Malfoy gently cupped Harry's pecs; he lightly touched the place where the stethoscope had left Harry's skin sore. He carded his fingers through the coarse grey hair on Harry's chest. "Good, that's good," he whispered. "You're doing fine." 

Harry's breathing evened out. He closed his eyes. There was the hum of the train; Malfoy was stroking his chest. His touch was warm, even tender. He rubbed a thumb over Harry's nipple, making him hiss involuntarily. Harry realised he was getting aroused.

"Are you all right now?" Malfoy's voice was close to Harry's ear. "My leg is killing me. I need to get up."

"What? Yes, yes of course. I'm good, I'm fine." Harry scrambled into an upright position. 

Malfoy put his hands onto the sofa to draw himself up. He was clearly in pain, and Harry could have kicked himself. He moved to the side and got up to help. Malfoy's bad leg was stiff and uncooperative, and when Malfoy reached for his cane, he almost lost his balance. Harry grabbed the cane, shoved it into Malfoy's hand; he wrapped his arm around Malfoy's waist so he did not fall. 

They were very close, so close Harry could see Malfoy's white eyelashes and how odd they made his eyes look. Their chests touched, his naked and Malfoy in a sweater so soft it had to be the finest wool. Harry felt the beat of Malfoy's heart, and it was like an echo of his own. Steady, regular beats. Harry took a deep tentative breath, and all it did was make his nipples graze Malfoy's sweater as his chest rose.

Malfoy flashed him a smile, and he shifted, ostensibly to put more weight on his left leg but it made their groins connect, and Merlin, Malfoy was half-hard, and Harry felt himself getting an embarrassing erection. He brought a bit of distance between them, but didn't let go of Malfoy's waist. Hurriedly he tried to get the buttons closed on his shirt but his hand was still shaking.

"You should take some of that Calming Draught Healer Attinborough left for you." Malfoy pointed towards the bottle. He was clutching the cane with the other hand but didn't move an inch.

"I guess I should." Harry did not move, either. He was calm. His chest felt broad and open, and his heart was pounding so loud he was sure Malfoy could hear every beat. But it was a steady beat, nothing to be concerned about. 

Malfoy pressed closer again. He did not seem to mind at all that Harry could feel _everything_. His cane dropped to the side, and he placed both his hands just above Harry's arse. "Do me a favour and don't freak out."

"I won't." It was Malfoy's heart that was racing now.

Malfoy's hands moved lower, over the cloth of Harry's trousers. He squeezed lightly, several times, then pulled Harry close to him. "I have a plan for you. For us."

"You do?" Harry freed his right arm from where it was crushed between Malfoy's chest and his. He circled Malfoy's waist; he stopped Malfoy's hips from moving. Malfoy moaned very softly. It was a sexy moan that Harry would like to hear more often. 

"We should take the Eurostar to Paris." The same dark voice, but for a few moments Harry did not register what Malfoy had said. Malfoy pulled him even closer; his cheek brushed Harry's. It was smooth and smelled of sandalwood.

"The train?" he finally got out. Behind Malfoy he could see the 12.01 Eurostar getting ready to depart. 

"Yes."

"This is your plan?" Go through the magical barrier, board another train. Get ready for the next great adventure.

"What do you think of it? We go, oh, I don't know, after the bloody Anniversary sounds like a great time. Four hours, and we are in Paris, and we see the sights. Or..." Malfoy placed a kiss on Harry's neck just below his ear. "Or we stay in the hotel all day and fuck."

"Three and a half." He could do this. Now that Malfoy had suggested it, it seemed like the easiest thing in the world.

Malfoy leaned back so he could look Harry in the eye. "Beg your pardon?"

"The train, the Eurostar. It takes less than three and a half hours for Paris."

Malfoy chuckled; there was silver in his eyes. "So are we doing this?"

"One condition."

Malfoy searched Harry's face for long moments. "You won't insist you're... straight, will you? Is that it? I guess we can skip the fucking in hotel rooms and just visit the Louvre and climb the Eiffel Tower. I am not sure I can manage all those stairs with my –"

"Shut up." Harry grabbed both of Malfoy's hands, brought them to his chest and held them there. "I want to sleep with you." _That_ train had long left the station even when the 12.01 was still waiting for its passengers to board. "But you have to promise me something first."

Malfoy cocked his head. He hadn't resisted Harry's gripping his arms, and he didn't resist now when Harry opened the dragon-hide bracelets. He just watched as Harry slid straps through buckles, pushed the sturdy leather apart and dropped the bracelets to the floor. 

The Dark Mark was barely visible: crooked pale blue veins beneath Malfoy's translucent skin. The pencil-thin red scars, however, were fresh. They ran along the inside of Malfoy's right wrist, at least three inches long. Harry had seen many wounds during his time as Auror, and he knew these cuts had meant to kill.

"I want you to promise me not to jump from the windows in your suite. I don't want you dead on Syntactic Alley."

Malfoy hadn't seen it coming, Harry could tell right away. The colour drained from his face, and he slowly but forcefully extracted his wrists from Harry's hold. Harry let him go but brought his hands down to Malfoy's waist. He held him close. Or at least he let him know that Harry wanted him close. 

"You promise?" Harry repeated.

Malfoy turned his head away but he didn't step back. His arms were hanging loosely at his sides. "Bloody Aurors," he whispered. 

The ever-present hum in the room increased, and Harry looked up to see the Eurostar rev up its engines. All doors of the train were closed. A jolt went through the length of it, and then the Eurostar slowly started moving towards the bright arches of blue sky at the end of St. Pancras Station. In just a few days Harry could be on this train. He and Malfoy could be on their way to Paris.

He moved his cheek against Malfoy's, he searched for Malfoy's mouth. Last night he had enjoyed a long wank to the memory of Malfoy being blown by the dark-haired man. But this was infinitely better. Malfoy's lips were cold and unresponsive at first. Then something gave; it ran through Malfoy's whole body. Harry felt Malfoy's fingers back on his arse, squeezing it hard. Malfoy's lips opened and oh God, so moist and hot, and Harry wanted to take control of the kiss but Malfoy wouldn't let him, and they made a mess of teeth and tongues and spit of it. Harry, who hadn't slept with another person in seven years, could see how sex with Malfoy would be incredible.

"Promise me," he moaned into the kiss.

Malfoy pushed him away, snatched a tail of Harry's shirt and wiped his mouth and chin. He grabbed his cane from the sofa, then stood before Harry. "I can promise you not to jump. Nobody wants my brains smeared all over Syntactic Alley."

"But you won't promise to not try to kill yourself."

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment. "I... Potter, you do understand, don't you? They are all gone. Dead. Everybody who was with me during those years. Greg, Pans, Theo, Blaise. Vince... Even Montague. He died three years ago." His voice had gone quiet and raw. The knuckles of his hand around the cane were very white. "For my whole life, I've explained what I did. I've tried not to justify it, I tried to make up for it, make things right. You know how it has been the last eighty years, Potter. But I'm done explaining. I need... I need someone alive who just understands. Who was there during the w– ... during those years. Who's seen how it was. Who just knows." Malfoy was trembling but he stood erect. He leaned on Lucius Malfoy's cane as if it still was a sign of pride. 

And perhaps it was. Harry cleared his throat. "You don't have to explain anything to me," he said. "Just don't go jumping from any ledges." 

And that was that.

*

The sun had set around nine o'clock, and Harry went down to the lobby shortly after. Malfoy was already waiting. He sat in one of the leather chairs, the Quibbler Beltane Edition on his knees. He was staring into the cold fireplace but when Harry approached, he turned to him with a brilliant smile.

"All ready?" he asked, putting the paper aside.

Malfoy was wearing black robes that shimmered the darkest of green when he rose from the armchair. He had done something to his hair; it fell silvery-white down his neck. And he had Lucius' cane exchanged for a staff of flowering hawthorn. He looked magnificent, and judging by his smirk, he knew it. 

Harry had a hard time not to feel underdressed in his green wool trousers and a cloak with an embroidered pattern of leaves and flowers. "I am ready. But there is one more thing."

He got out the gift Agney had brought him a few hours ago. Malfoy's robes were still not closed all the way; he was wearing a pale green shirt beneath them. No tie. He had left the top buttons open. 

Malfoy gave him questioning look. "What is it?"

"Can you take off your robes for a moment?"

"My –"

"Please? Agney told me to give you something."

"Agney?" Malfoy's voice was breathless with surprise. "All right." He removed his robes, folded them carefully and put them on the chair. Then he turned back to Harry. "What now?"

Harry stepped up to him. Something about the open look on Malfoy's face made him stop. It made him press his lips lightly on Malfoy's mouth as he closed the top buttons of his shirt. When he turned the collar up he met Malfoy's amused gaze. 

"Agney told you to kiss me?"

Harry shook his head. The kiss still tingled on his lips. Agney had given him a tie that was made from fine smooth silk, with a paisley pattern of blues and greens. 

Harry slung it around Malfoy's neck and started to tie a Windsor knot. He was good at tying a Windsor. It was also the only knot he knew how to tie without Ginny's help. 

After the first couple of moves, Malfoy stopped him. "Let me do it," he said. "I never wear a Windsor. But now watch closely, Potter: I'll show you how to tie a Prince Albert."

  
_fin_  


  



End file.
